


Authentic

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, oilgland!Kink, wing!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel crashes into Dean's motel room after an unexpected fight, too tired to shield his wings. PWP. Surprise ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Authentic

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous on spnkink_meme: "After a particularly rough battle in heaven, Cas' wings are a ruffled, tangled mess. He immediately goes to Dean (because who doesn't want a good hard victory fuck after a success?), who is more than happy to straighten Cas' wings out, knowing how sensitive they are and how he can always turn Cas into a shivery puddle of angel by playing with them. Real feathered wings, please, preferably a big wingspan, and black. Oil gland kink would be awesome, but not necessary. I just want lots of petting and straightening errant feathers and combing of fingers through them, while Cas eases into a delightful mix of relaxation and arousal, and Dean knows exactly how he's affecting his angel. Can lead to awesome, wing-pulling sex too, I wouldn't complain ;)"

**Authentic**

  
  
     Dean nearly choked on his beer.  
  
     Castiel didn’t appear in the motel room so much as crash through it. He’d narrowly avoided putting a hole through the roof but hadn’t managed to avoid the side table, or the bed. Splinters of wood skittered across the floor as Castiel collapsed, a broken pile of dust and feathers.  
  
     There were only a few times Dean had ever caught a glimpse of his wings, usually when Castiel was weatherworn and exhausted and it was always an accident. Without the mental resolve to control himself there was a blurred congruence between realities; Castiel’s wings circumvented the fold of their own existence and manifested sheeny black, rippling with the afterthought of a thousand unseen colors.  
  
     “Cas- jesus! What the hell happened to you?”  
  
     Castiel groaned, peeling himself slowly upright as he gently flapped his wings to shake away the dust. Most of his feathers were matted with blood but some were missing altogether. He’d made it back in one piece but it was the first time he had been unable to tuck his wings back into himself; he just didn’t have the energy. It was a feeling of nakedness that washed hotly over the back of his neck and embarrassed he stretched them out, hoping to make it look like a choice instead of an accident.  
  
     “There was an ambush. I was caught unaware by several angels in a warehouse in southern Michigan.”  
  
     “Define several.”  
  
     “Thirteen.”  
  
     “What happened?”  
  
     “Four survived.”  
  
     Dean stared at Castiel for a second; wings ripping through his dirty trench coat, pristine white shirt now black and filthy. He had taken on thirteen angels and he hadn’t just lived, he’d won. Without realizing it, Dean started to chuckled.  
  
     “What’s funny about this, Dean?”  
  
     “Nothing. You’re alright, right?”  
  
     “I am exhausted, Dean. The exchange was very taxing.”  
  
     “Well, at least you can still make an entrance.” Dean gestured at the broken bed frame, “Might as well get you cleaned up. Ditch the coat- I’ll get a towel or something. Any of that blood even yours, or just everyone you steamrollered?”  
  
     Castiel rolled his eyes and Dean shrugged.  
  
     Minutes later, Castiel was sitting crossed-legged on what used to be a single-sized while Dean gently dragged a damp wash cloth down his back. As Dean rubbed between Castiel’s shoulder blades, the warmth of the water soothed his aching vessel. He relaxed, a dribble of opaque liquid seeping from his wing base and Castiel seemed to stiffen, waiting for Dean to say something but he didn’t. Instead, he dragged the cloth through the glisten, letting the sandalwood smell of it soak in at the joint.  
  
     “Doin’ alright there, Cas?”  
  
     Dean could hear him swallow, “Yes.”  
  
     Reflexively Castiel had curved his wings around to his front trying to straighten the feathers, inadvertently exposing the tiny indents of his glands to Dean’s touch.  
  
     “We should clean those off, probably.” Dean frowned.  
  
     “Clean w-what, Dean?”  
  
     “You’re wings, here just let me-”  
  
     Dean could feel a shudder ripple through Castiel’s skin. He re-dampened the cloth and slowly dragged it from the radial curve of his wing down through his brittle flight feathers. They were soft underneath where they were close to the body but the top layers were flight-worn and hollow. As Dean carefully sponged away the filth the gloss returned and when the rinse water was brackish and red-brown Castiel’s wings looked better, but they weren’t done.  
  
     Painstakingly, Dean began to groom. Massaging the dense muscles until the iron-hard of them was pliable, he stretched them gently out to span. Dean could feel the taught sinews glide underneath the velvet-soft ridge-feathers as Castiel strained against himself not to move or react.  
  
     He was panting softly; every time Dean raked his hand through the feathers and tugged them gently into place, he could feel it. It was the closest to his true form he could be without revealing the blinding light of his being but it was a part still hardwired into his vessel. As Dean smoothed the feathers the sensation of it spread across his chest and belly, cock swelling embarrassingly in his slacks. This wasn’t what should happen but as Dean continued his ministrations he could feel the hot trickle of his own oil running down his spine, collecting at his tailbone.  
  
     He wanted Dean to bury his fingers in the wetness of it. He wanted to be slicked down, wanted Dean to slide over his skin, in him, on him- it didn’t matter. It was an aching want and when Dean untangled a stubborn snarl with a pull, he groaned.  
  
     “ _Dean_...”  
  
     “Yes?”  
  
     “What- why are you-”  
  
     Dean grinned.  
  
     “Careful Cas, I might think you like it a little rough. Got a thing for me tugging-“ Dean jerked his wrist, “-on your feathers, don’t you?”  
  
     Castiel’s back was arching involuntarily, pulling away from his touch while inviting more as the swelling of his glands became impossible to ignore. A red-lined flush ran from where the wing-joint met skin to his shoulder blades, sweat a silky patina across his back. The smell was filling the motel room, the same as before but suddenly more. It exploded across the palette, heavy musk and salt and something else entirely inhuman.  
  
     “That what happens, Cas?” Dean tugged harder, gathering a handful of feathers and Castiel made a broken noise.  
  
     “What happens if I touch-“ Dean swirled his thumb around his right gland, “-here.”  
  
     Oil slicked over Dean’s hand and Castiel lurched forward, his forearms shaking as Dean pushed harder, coaxing it out of him. Dean switched hands, pressing down with more force. Brutally he let the pain-pressure build as he pinched too hard, scraping a nail-edge against the blood-ripe skin.  
  
     Castiel was coming undone.  
  
     The illusion of self-control he maintained was slipping away as he rutted against the broken mattress, desperate for Dean to do something-  _anything_. As another spurt of warm oil dribble down his back, Dean reached around, struggled with his belt and then lowered his slacks freeing his swollen cock. It hung heavy between his legs, shiny with pre-come. Dean slithered his sopping hand over the tip, rubbing Castiel with his own slick. A burning-tingle spread over the sensitized flesh and the ache of it curled around his gut.  
  
     Castiel's entire body glistened and Dean was drowning in the image of him arched over the bed, the curve of his back driving his ass into the air. Still fisting his left wing Dean leaned back on his knees, an already-slicked index finger pushing between Castiel’s cheeks. He knuckled against his puckered hole and Castiel tensed, lurching backwards. He wrenched Castiel’s wing sideways and his cock thrust against the air; a thick droplet of pre-come falling lazily from the tip as he was pulled away from the mattress. Breath catching in his throat, Dean pulled harder as he rocked Castiel against two fingers, then three. Dean let him drop onto his stomach, cock pinned underneath.  
  
     Kneading both hands against Castiel’s glands he milked whatever was left, sliding it over his cock until he was lubed and dripping. Dean gripped Castiel’s wings at the base. Fisting the thick muscle he hauled him upright, shoving against him before sliding into his body. The stretch of it burned and Castiel keened but with nothing to brace him, his weight hung from his wings. Dean snapped his hips, the skin between them soaking wet, slapping in tune with his thrusts.  
  
     “ _Harder_.”  
  
     Dean spread his knees for balance and dragged Castiel’s wings together until they touched. The strain of it forced Castiel’s entire body to tense, he arched his calves to gain leverage as his body clamped down on Dean’s cock. Shaking with the exertion he fell against Dean, the blinding strike of his own orgasm blooming behind his eyes. Sweat dripping from his brow Castiel struggled, but Dean didn’t let go.  
  
     Instead, he forced both wing joints into one hand. Reaching around he stroked Castiel, his rhythm stuttered and sloppy as he felt the build of his own orgasm, but it didn’t take long. Castiel came in spurts and before the waves of it had passed, Dean shoved him back onto his knees. Hand covered in spunk Dean raked it through Castiel’s joint feathers and then he was spent.  
  
     Collapsing, Dean rolled over on his back and spread out his legs to cool off. For a few minutes they were quiet, until he felt Castiel get off the bed. Still breathing heavily though his nose, Dean swung his head around, “Y’know, one of these days you’re gonna kill me.”  
  
     “Yes, well.“ Castiel was instantaneously redressed, wings hidden and nothing but the lingering flush on his face to give them away, “Your imagination is very vivid. Was that fantasy to your liking?”  
  
     “ _Fan-fucking-tastic_.” Dean let out a satisfied sigh, “Where’d you get all the blood?”  
  
     “A small German butcher shop on Wilmount, outside of San Diego.”  
  
     “Authentic.”  
  
     Castiel nodded, pleased with himself. “I have to go now, Dean but I will endeavor to return tomorrow evening when I’m finished.”  
  
     “Way to bail on the afters, Cas. I know you’re busy but hell, give a guy a minute.” Dean was already pulling on his jeans, “And what about the room, I put a damage dep-  _don’t do that!_ ”  
  
     Castiel snapped his fingers and the bed repaired itself underneath Dean, popping suddenly from floor-level to bed-level, the oil-soaked florals rewashed and freshly made. As an afterthought, Castiel replaced the tiny pillow mint Dean had eaten before he’d arrived.  
  
     Dean chuckled.  
  
     “Alright, alright. So, gonna fly by tomorrow?”  
  
     “Yes,” Castiel gave Dean a knowing look, “I believe you mentioned something rather illicit involving a pie.”  
  
     Then, Castiel was gone.


End file.
